Sinister: Life Full Of Holes

[Joan of Dark]

When you end up alone inside an empty house on a Sunday afternoon, the empty 
house in which you grew up, which more than ever, more than anything, 
reminds you of how empty your life feels nowadays... How void of emotions 
and affection your inside feels...

Father on a trip, coming back forever, wishing he never had to...

Mother with an invitation in her hands, for somewhere else. One. For her 
only. One way ticket, stating no return on this journey she’s set her heart 
and feelings on... Away. So far...

Brother being elsewhere as well... substituting whatever has been lost from 
in here with strange people. Friends that you know they’re going to fail him 
just as you have been forsaken by your once dearest ones. But he’s just 17 
and you cannot explain to him that everything changes. Everything goes away. 
Everything and everyone goes away, never to return, leaving you there hoping 
like a fool. To describe it as tragically as you have experienced it, words 
fail you...

And you have never managed to approach him. And he hates you and you don’t 
know why. Maybe it is because you only tried to protect him. Maybe it is 
because you used to quarrel when you were young. But that was because you 
were jealous of him. He was the youngest and you used to wet your bed in the 
nights because you were so insecure. Because you were afraid you were not 
loved. And you couldn’t help it but wet your bed. And you were dead jealous, 
but you didn’t know what jealousy meant back then. And you kept waking up in 
the middle of the night in a pool of tumbled, wet and cold bed sheets. And 
you were so ashamed of yourself. 6 years old and trying to change your 
bedclothes in the, unimaginable for your mind then, small hours with the 
lights out so that they wouldn’t wake up and tell you off. Or you would just 
crouch and try to avoid the wet spot. But your nighties would be wet and 
cold and they would stick on your limbs, keeping you freezing until the 
morning...

Maybe you’ve tried more than you should to keep all this ragged tapestry of 
people, events and emotions together. And you will be blamed for that in the 
future. People tell you not to care. But how can you not care when it’s your 
family?

Makes me wonder... which is the greater distance?

Everything changes. Everything goes away...

And the only thing that’s left to us to connect us with other people is a 
sequence of numbers per person. Maybe two. Digits hastily saved in the 
memory of our cell phone. Or on our home’s speed dial. Numbers which maybe 
you have never used more than once, some others never. Of people you once 
met and you didn’t want to lose. But whom you lost and you deceive yourself 
that by holding this little piece of information that is -admit it- useless 
to you, you actually keep that person at an arm’s length.  And you dare not 
erase them, as they make you feel safer. How many times you’ve browsed 
through them to soothe your insecurity. I. Know. People. The more, the 
better. And if, somehow, one day these numbers are erased then you feel how 
unbearable loneliness and despair can be...

No real connection. No feel. No touch. No warmth. No voice even. Bits and 
bytes on glowing screens. Our speech and thought fragmented and confined 
into 160-letter crumbs. We will eventually end up unable to operate 
otherwise...

And when you end up alone inside an empty house like this one, that was 
built to be the shelter of a family and their ever-growing feelings, but 
now, having started to disintegrate from within, it has remained a vacant 
ruin, you feel so utterly alone. And you deeply regret the times that you 
tried to escape from in here. Only that you never really managed to. The 
further you went, the closer you were drawn to your homestead. Maybe because 
leaving was not what you really wanted. Because you knew that home was where 
you’ve always wanted to be. But you didn’t know that then... All you knew 
was that you wanted to live, to feel, you wanted forget, you wished to be 
forgotten and start all over again. But now that your devotion to false 
promise lands was withered away , in terror, you find out that not only you 
haven’t escaped from what haunted you, not only you haven’t forgotten but , 
instead,  there is noone any more, noone that remembers you.

All you should have wished for should be some  p e a c e ...

And you stay in on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. With noone whom you could 
call. And all those 233 numbers you have, prove insufficient to soothe your 
pain. Because its early afternoon and it is not polite to call other 
people’s houses at this time.

And the only thing you’d want would be to hide into the closet just like 
when you were young. When trembling from anticipation and excitement, maybe 
a little scared of the dark as well, peeking through the slight crack 
between the flaps you’d wait for the others to come and find you. You’d 
watch them look for you under the bed and your desk and impatiently call out 
your name because it was dinner time! bath time! joanna!...

But now, being 21, I’m more afraid to do that. More than when I was 6. I 
dare not hide in the closet. Because then, I’d snuggle between piles of 
clothes and greedily inhale the lingering smell of the detergent my mother 
used, and watch little specks of dust dance in streams through the 
waterfalls of sunlight that would sneak through the cracks. And after a 
while I’d see a sweet, dear face with a twinkle in their eyes looking 
towards the closet and approach and, while opening it, I would throw myself 
into their arms...

Now I’m afraid that if I hide myself, very few will realize it. And even 
fewer will search for me. And noone will stick to it to the end...

I’m afraid to even try and see if I’m right. As, if I do so, I am bound to 
spend the rest of my few days abandoned in the comfort of my darkness. Noone 
will come to my rescue.

Now, carving deep red trails on my forearms with a pocketknife I used for 
carving wooden boats of pine wood when I was little and embark little ants 
onto strange lands after the rain, I’m trying to carve little boats and set 
them assail to drift me away on the ocean of tears that floods my eyes...




This is more autobiographical than it should be. More than I can withstand. 
More than you would want it to be. Having less content than all the 
previously mentioned...

Do let me get away with that...






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